


Ill-Advised Distraction

by kaligoose



Series: Ill-Advised [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deepthroating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, McCree continues to have a huge dick, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, This is not a healthy coping mechanism for stress, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaligoose/pseuds/kaligoose
Summary: McCree comes back deeply shaken by a mission that almost goes very, very badly. The reader provides comfort by being a distraction.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, I'm really bad at summaries and tagging. If I missed anything, please let me know. Anyway, I don't recommend boning as a legitimate alternative for shock/stress.

It was rare that you were waiting for Jesse McCree to come back from a mission instead of returning with him. Additionally, Jesse tended to go on more violent excursions than you did, and that made the waiting harder. Externally, you appear calm, reading a book in one of Gibraltar's convenient nooks that just happened to have a perfect view of where the dropship would come back.

Internally, however, you have to admit to yourself how little emotional restraint you have right at that moment. Your eyes have skimmed the page no less than thrice at this point, and you were retaining none of its content. With great regret, you have to finally admit to yourself that you are concerned for McCree past what is wise. Emotional investment is not smart in your line of work, but here you were.

You hadn't been involved in the full-on briefing, but given the fact that you'd given them the intelligence that led to the operation in the first place, you weren't exactly ignorant. It was a dangerous situation, with significant likelihood that Deadlock would show up, and that was reason enough to send McCree. You'd made the recommendation yourself to Winston when you'd delivered your intel report.

At least you could trust yourself to at least be externally impartial, even if your stomach was twisting with anxiety that you knew better than to express. You shut the book with a snap and a sigh. Leaning back against the bench, your vision pans across the sky, hoping to see the dropship decelerating as it approaches the hangar.

Despite all of your self control, all of your rigorous practice in the art of deception, a broad smile dawns on your lips as you find exactly what you're hoping for. As soon as the smile is born, it's gone, leaving your normal expression of pleasantly interested neutrality. Relief flooding your veins, you finally find the self control you're seeking over your reactions.

Stretching, you rise and start a casual path towards the rec room, which conveniently coincides with the path the returning agents would most likely take. When you enter the hallway, however, your freshly relieved stomach finds new anxiety as you register the chime that indicates a medical emergency. Even as your feet take you directly to the hangar at a faster clip than was strictly necessary, you recognize that there's nothing you could do that others couldn't do better, for example.

It didn't change the fact that you needed to see if Jesse was okay. And so there you were, book tucked into the crook of your arm, entering the hangar to a scene that simultaneously chills your blood and relaxes you—selfishly as hell. The first person your eyes go to is Jesse, standing in the wide circle the other agents have opened to give Angela a chance to work. 

The lines of his shoulders say much about the state of his mind; he looks ready to spring, ready to draw at any second. Though sounds in the hangar echo, your heels don't make a noise over the anxious noise the other agents are producing—Hana unloading her MEKA alone would've drowned out anything above shouting for attention.

Hovering by the door, you realize that Angela is currently fussing over Fareeha, but the latter has already sat up. A breath you had acknowledged you were holding but promptly ignored escapes you with a bit more force than you'd expected. Relieved, you leave the hangar, unaware that you'd been witnessed.

As the team back from the mission went through the required medical review, your normal protocol for meeting up with Jesse for some post-mission stress relief was usually you fell into line with him at some point as he was walking back to his room. This was your plan—at least until you were pressed hard into the wall, your wrist held by a firm grip behind your back.

You knew exactly who it was, and you struggled to keep the soft wheeze that escaped your mouth from being the breathy moan it almost was. “Jesse?” you asked, face pressed into the wall and waiting patiently until he releases you. He does—after a longer pause than you'd expected. Turning slowly and as nonthreateningly as possible, you meet his eyes and freeze at the expression you see in them. 

The raw vulnerability in his gaze surprises you, you have to admit. Unbidden, your hand slowly reaches for him, taking him gently by the hand and saying quietly, “C'mon, let's go somewhere quiet.” There is no lust in the tone of your voice as you guide him through the halls. His hand is trembling in yours, but he says nothing as you lead him through Gibraltar's hallways, leading the pair of you to Jesse's room; it's closer, and you reason that the familiarity won't hurt.

McCree is present enough to open the lock on the door for the pair of you, and you gently pull him through the door, not missing how his eyes scan the dimly lit room for hostiles. He's shaken, a vast difference from the rough adrenaline you're used to from him when he comes back from successful missions. Once he deems it safe, he allows himself to be moved to the bed to sit.

“Do you want to talk, or do you want to be distracted?” you ask quietly, and he finally looks at you with something approaching familiarity. God, his voice is positively destroyed when he says, “Latter, if ya don't mind.” The smile that crosses your lips is less an expression of pleasure and more one of sympathy as you move closer closer, straddling his lap and taking his cheeks into your hands.

You place gentle kisses on his lips, his cheekbones, along his jawline and to the hollow beneath his ear. He still smells like gunpowder, it still lingers in his hair as the fingertips of one of your hands rubs soothing motions into his scalp. He is motionless under your ministrations, though you hear his breathing begin to slow and even out.

Your fingers begin the process of undressing him—unlike your first time together, you would go through the effort of removing every hint of the battle from him. It is time-consuming without Jesse's assistance, but soon enough, he's down to his hat, shirt, and pants. Uncaring of the sweat and fear you can still smell on him, you press kisses on his throat. 

“Jesse, please come back to me,” you murmur against his skin, and you feel the shudder that goes through him. Shaking, his hands finally touch you, hovering hesitantly over your hips before finally landing on them as gently as if he feared you were made of spun sugar. He gives an uneven, heaving sigh that drains a bit of the tension from his shoulders. 

With that sigh, he seems to have come back to himself, at least enough for you to feel that he actually wants the attention he's receiving. His hands wander up your sides, wrapping the sides of your rib cage in his large hands. He's not particularly active in the process, but it's enough.

Your hips roll into his, and you are pleasantly surprised at the deep, pleased sigh that passes through his throat. He's far from hard, but his groin has taken interest in the proceedings by the sound of it. Your lips finally meet again, and you deepen the kiss as your hips apply delightful pressure and friction. He is becoming increasingly active, his hands previously in a gentlemanly location on your back wandering south to grab two solid handfuls of your rear.

Not letting your hands remain idle, you begin unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it from his broad shoulders. Successful, your hands brush against the newly exposed skin, across old scars and muscles that tense and relax as your fingertips pass. You don't want to put to words how relieved you are when McCree finally asserts himself enough to pull you closer, grinding your hips to his as he groans, “shirt off, darlin'.”

Rewarding him for his engagement in your distraction, you withdraw enough to pull your shirt off, revealing the black plunge bra beneath. With a sort of dexterity one could expect from a gunslinger, he has the clasp on your bra unhooked before your brain recognizes fully that his hands have released your ass. Obligingly, you drop your bra on the floor next to where your shirt ended up. 

McCree's beard is a tactile contrast to the soft pass of his tongue that he applies to your breast. Your nipples quickly harden in the comparative cool of his room in combination with his efforts, something he latches onto as if they were a lifeline for him. As he lavishes attention on your chest, you recognize your breathing going uneven, your hands finally succeeding in fully pulling his shirt off and dropping it on the floor with the rest of the discarded clothing. 

Gently, you finally manage to extricate yourself, but you don't remove yourself for long. From your position straddling his lap, you sink to the floor in front of him before pulling his pants open and down his legs. Fortunately, he lifts his hips to assist, making things vastly easier. Looking up at McCree through your lashes, you are satisfied to note that his undivided attention is on you for the first time since he's come back from Dorado.

Your hands gently palm him, pressing through the fabric of his boxers and feeling his growing erection through the fabric. With little ceremony, you pull the last barrier free and take his thickening cock into your hands, giving it a few strokes before taking the head of him into your mouth.

You taste his sweat, but it's not an altogether unpleasant taste as you take all of his length—a feat that despite enthusiastic practice you're only able to accomplish with any degree of comfort when he's not all the way hard. McCree's hands are tender as he runs his fingers through your hair. He could easily direct the motion of your head as you bob on him but doesn't, as if his hands were there to reassure himself that you're there, that he's not in Dorado.

Since he's still soft enough for you to manage it, you push all the way down, nose pressing into his pubic bone as your tongue extends past your mouth, the tip sweeping across his sack with the assistance of your hands gently lifting them closer. The noise he makes is extraordinarily satisfying, a groaned curse followed by your name that has your toes curling.

With time and a rapid heartbeat, he's hardening in earnest now, and it begins to approach discomfort to have him in your throat. You are forced to begin backing off lest you gag on him, but his hands turn to steel, refusing to let you ease up. Eyes fluttering open, you meet his consuming gaze and moan onto him; his stomach twitches into your nose as he gives a breathy gasp at the sensation.

Your throat struggles to remain open but you don't pull out of his grasp; instead, you tuck your thumbs into your fists and pick up a rapid pace. By the time he's fully hard, there are tears pricking at your eyes and there are spots of oxygen-deprivation dancing in your vision, but your throat has managed to relax enough to take his entire girth with only occasional difficulty. 

McCree's hands, still directing your motions to some extent, finally pull you off of him. There is not an insignificant amount of saliva on your lips and chin, but he places a sloppy kiss on your lips regardless. Those hands guide you to standing before releasing you finally as they trace the pattern of your curves, his lips finding your breasts again and distracting you quite effectively from the way his hands undo the button of your pants and draw them down leaving you in black underwear that shows a lot more of your ass than it covers.

His hands draw the fabric down and they drop to your ankles—they land on your pants and you step out of the tripping hazard before nudging them out of the way with your heel. Your attention has been otherwise occupied with avoiding gagging on a sizable dick, so standing before him you realize that he's not taken off his hat. You offer him a crooked grin before taking the hat from his head and plopping it on your own.

The relief that floods through your stomach is tangible as he gives you a warm chuckle. “Yanno, I think I like you wearin' that 'n nothin' else,” he says, hands grabbing your hips and pulling you closer to straddle his lap again. He goes slowly enough for you to avoid tripping, your knees managing to find enough surface area on the bed around him that you don't slide off the edge. That grin of yours hasn't left your lips as you roll your hips, dragging your slick heat up and down the hard length of him. 

Pupils blown, he doesn't break eye contact with you as his middle finger slips inside of you, finding little in the way of resistance with how wet you are. A pleased moan escapes you as your hands wander—across his broad chest, pinching and rubbing his nipples before going up across his broad shoulders and eventually ending up in his hair. As his metal thumb abruptly and confidently sweeps across your clit, your fingers tighten in his hair, the combination of which has both of you gasping.

McCree's lips and mouth work magic on your neck and shoulders as you hold him close to you, his fingers working to relax you enough to ride him. Despite having slept with him multiple times, it still took preparation for him not to hurt you when he enters you—and the lube you lean over to grab from his bedside table definitely helps.

The lube is cold as hell—you take a moment to warm it in your hand before slicking him up. He twitches his fingers into your g-spot a few times as a silent 'thank you', eliciting a gasp from your lips that has you briefly forgetting what exactly you're up to. His hands are barely out of the way before you line up his head at your entrance and sink onto him.

No matter how many times you fuck McCree, you don't think you'll ever stop loving the stretch when he first enters you. A shuddering moan passes your lips as your head falls back—fortunately, the hand that wasn't covered in lube catches the hat before it could fall off. You feel his hands twitch where they're situated solidly on your hips, and with the tilt of your head and half-closed eyes you completely miss the look of unadulterated worship that dawns on his face. 

Your natural and synthetic lubrication is enough, and you soon start moving on him in a tantalizingly slow rhythm. The movement of your hips is precisely manipulated so that the head of him presses into your g-spot before you change the angle of your hips and take him as deep as you can. The hands he's got on your hips are following your movements more than directing them, but the pressure of his fingertips is a good sign.

As you allow your pace to increase, you gently take his face into your hands, staring deep into his eyes as you try and determine how effective your distraction is. It's definitely not because the rapturous expression he's currently wearing makes something in your soul feel like it is blossoming. At risk of acknowledging that as a legitimate emotion instead of something driven wild by your brain chemistry, you kiss him soundly, moaning against his lips when his metal thumb finds your clit again.

Sufficiently motivated, your hips move faster, lifting enough for him for the head of him to almost fall out of you before snapping your hips down again. His hand that isn't currently driving your clit mad goes to one of your breasts, palming it and massaging it before his fingertips expertly rolled the peaked nipple between them.

You're almost disappointed when his hand leaves your breast and the other hand leaves your clit, but the whine that built in your throat ended up as a keening moan as he grabs your hips for leverage and drives his hips into you. Scrabbling for purchase, your arms wrap around his shoulders as you gasp his name. He's planted his feet for leverage on the floor, and between that and his firm grip on your pelvis, he has more than enough force to drive deep into you.

Chests pressed together, your uneven, hitching breath are clear. The quick, hard pace Jesse sets has you rocketing towards orgasm, and you press kisses onto his neck where your face has nestled itself. He pushes hard into your g-spot and your teeth sink into his shoulder as a result, teeth latching onto the muscle attaching shoulder to neck.

The grip you have on his shoulder only releases so you can cry out when McCree does it again, leaving you putty in his hands. “Please, please, please,” you whine against his neck, as your thighs shake around his hips—you're so close, you could cry if he stops right now. Bless his heart; he doesn't. Instead, he positively growls, “Lemme see your face when you come on me.”

Obedient, you draw back enough to make eye contact with him, and your back arches, pressing your chest into his as he changes the angle of your hips as he drives up into you—one hand on his shoulder, the other holding his hat on your head, you come undone atop him. Eyebrows drawn together, your lips part in a silent 'oh' as your half-lidded eyes maintain eye contact as much as you can. 

It's enough to see the expression on his face, the earnest reverence that makes you forget that you don't have an emotional relationship with him, that you _can't_ let yourself take that step, because it feels so real in that moment it almost makes no difference. The force of your orgasm leaves you trembling, and he wraps his arms and stills, just holding you close for a second. 

Legs like gelatin, it takes a second for you to remember how to move them, that you're even capable of such a thing. With only the slightest assistance from him for balance, you pull yourself off of him before dropping to your knees again. You taste yourself on him when you take his cock into your mouth again. Your throat is still reasonably loose after your previous efforts, and it pays off, because despite the fact that he's still painfully hard, you can still at least take most of him in your mouth.

Hand assisting towards the base of him, you pull up and off him enough so that your lips brush against the underside of his head as you murmur, “I want you to come down my throat, can you do that for me, cowboy?” The grin he gives you is frankly predatory as he gives you a quick nod. Satisfied, your lips and tongue are on him again.

It doesn't take long for your oral and manual attentions to bring him to the edge, and he brushes the hair from your eyes tenderly as his expression contorts into something frankly wonderful as he approaches his peak. Breath shuddering, he only manages, “I'm... I'm gonna—,” as a warning, but it's enough for you to quickly take him as deep as you can.

The moans you pull from him are music to your ears, and then he's spilling into your mouth and throat. With enthusiasm, you swallow everything he has for you, tongue moving as much as it can around the girth in your mouth. When the last of his orgasm trails off, you lift yourself off of his softening cock with a pop. You're surprised by how quickly he moves to duck down, take your face in his large hands, and kiss you tenderly.

Given that there was just a dick down your throat, your cheeks are flushed, but something about that last kiss flusters you much more than you'd want to admit. He breaks the kiss and his thumb passes gently over your cheek, soothing and appreciative. “I'm mighty grateful for that distraction,” he says, and you give him an unfettered smile in return.

Your gaze quickly flicks away, breaking eye contact as you stand but feeling the burn of his gaze on you. Your expression goes pensive—while your distraction was more than effective in bringing him back from shell-shock, it's not entirely clear how long that may last. In previous encounters, you've not spent much time in post-coital cuddling, but it was time for an exception.

Gently, you push him onto his back, and he goes willingly, his face politely curious— _he's guarding his expression, what is he hiding?_ —as he lays back. Climbing onto the bed beside him, you pull his comforter over the pair of you as you crawl into the circle of his arms. 

Your breathing has finally evened out, but your voice sounds pretty wrecked when you ask, “Feeling better?” The chuckle he gives you rumbles through his chest as he gives you a warm smile and removes his hat from your head to place it on the bedside table. “Much,” he replies before brushing the hair from your eyes again and then letting his head fall back on to the pillow. 

This is the part where, if you were in a relationship, you would ask him if he wanted to talk about the mission. If he wanted to get the crushing weight of it off of his chest, if you could absolve him of any responsibility he was illogically assigning to himself. Instead, you gently lay your head on his bicep, arm wrapped around his torso and pulling him tight to you. 

Because no matter what, you remind yourself, you _have_ to keep this casual, you have to keep it physical. Sex wasn't what McCree had needed to come back to himself in a healthy way, but if that was the only thing you could give him, not without jeopardizing the tenuous friends-with-benefits arrangement the two of you had.

Eyes drifting closed, you hope against hope that you can keep this, at least.


End file.
